Hey Loners,
I'll admit; lately, I haven't been sleeping well, and by lately, I mean it's been a long time. I've had a few 50 hour days recently, and I could blame substances, but it wasn't what you think. I drink one cup of coffee a day. I suspect that I'm always anxious about what I can't finish and what there's left to do. There's a lot of change in my life, and I can't figure myself out in it. I don't have any security, and it affects how I sleep at night.
I always feel like I'm trying to borrow time. I'm trying to catch up on laundry, catch up with friends, finish this or that project, to find more money. I don't even sometimes. I don't want to sleep because I'm too happy or worried I'll never feel this way again. I love slow processes in cooking - pickling, salting, preserving - because that's not how my brain works.
Sometimes when I have something, I want to eat it forever. I devour it and want more and more again. I am always between piety and hedonism. There's pleasure in the bent knee; hands clasped, lips ajar, and eyes looking up, expecting whether I'm kneeling before a cabinet, wondering if I have a pan big enough or if I'm praying.
All-day, I'm edging. I am always on the cusp of an explicit and violent joy that will erupt melancholy as soon as I enjoy it. I've been standing in the cold a lot lately. I've been held tightly in my arms and got to smell the sweat and cheap beer in the crew neck of my friend. The pandemic wasn't when my life stopped, but it makes sense to say it like a refrain, a chorus we all know, but if we were real-honest, life never stops until you're dead. Maybe we're honest a lot.
I think that's why I enjoy making tofu from the soybean. First, you wash the beans, then you soak, pulse, and strain, and boil. It's simple, and yet it's almost 24 hours in the making. There are so many steps, and each of them asks me to slow down and find grace. I only seem to know extremes. It's all or nothing, and I've tried for years to change this, and it feels permanent.
This letter includes a recording of a poem that I wrote on a train at 3am. I read it recently for The Shabby Dollhouse publishing release. I'll give you a warning that my voice is very similar to the last sounds of dinosaurs swallowed by tar pits. It's a miracle that you get to hear such a cry for help.
I wrote this poem, and I can't say it's finished or even well-edited, but I'll give it to you anyway. I read it for my friend Tommy via a voice memo, and I've uploaded the recording on my SoundCloud. The second time I got to read it was for reading on Shabby Doll House this past week. You can listen to it here.
Sometimes when I have something, I want to eat it forever. I devour it and want more and more again. I am always between piety and hedonism. There's pleasure in the bent knee; hands clasped, lips ajar, and eyes looking up, expecting whether I'm kneeling before a cabinet, wondering if I have a pan big enough or if I'm praying.
At present, the text is quite long, and I didn't want to overwhelm your inbox. I already do that weekly. If you want the text feel free to leave a comment or let me know through the communication, we may possess. You'll hear the doubt and exhaustion in my voice as I tell Tommy, "maybe you'll like it," but I never finished the thought.
Tommy lived in NYC for like a decade, and I got to sleep on his couch in Bushwick. Maybe it was Bedstuy. I think about roasting chicken for Tommy at 2 am and singing to Tori Amos while he sits on the porch of my house smoking cigarettes. I leave the door open. The smoke comes in, and so does Tommy's voice shouting along to "Cornflake Girl."
I am thinking about how I've been standing in the cold a lot. Early morning my heels clicked on the asphalt as I walked an old walk to the train. My eyes stung and were blurry. I am thinking about everyone who tried to be strong and not relapse during the pandemic. I am thinking about how the pandemic wasn't when life stopped, but for some, it did. I am crying and thinking about how hard it is to stay safe, clean, and here. The world doesn't make it easy. I was having so much fun, and now I'm off on some shit again. I am walking so fast.
It's so cold. I kept thinking about how I should've brought a scarf. My neck felt raw and reminded me of when I was standing in the cold of New York, and Tommy ran back into his house and came back down with a thick forest green scarf. He wrapped it around my neck and said, "don't forget to protect ya neck." I miss my pal—another set of warm, strong arms and the smell of sweat I'd like to embrace me soon.
Godspeed loners,
Kelly
alone in my room is a once defunct and maybe weekly dispatch from the mundane from a local ficus. kelly is a writer & serial hobbyist. there are two episodes of alone in my room on soundcloud. you can donate to support a hobby or buy soil here.